


The Girl and The Fox

by arewebrutalhearts, Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags to Come, Alternate Universe, Animated Gifs, Changing Narration, Folk Tale, Gifset, M/M, Minor Character Death(s), Werewolves, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arewebrutalhearts/pseuds/arewebrutalhearts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the village of Beacon, encircled by deep forest, a legend has begun sinking its bloody teeth into young flesh.<br/>But who is really responsible, and who is it he seeks to warm his den?</p><p>The Argent sisters explore the forest for some clue, but the villagers have their minds set. It's the Fox, just as the Huntsman said. Stiles has ever been a wondrous storyteller, but no amount of aesops will stem the flow of innocent blood.</p><p>  <i>He is a clever fox, they say, and so he has found himself with a sweet tooth for clever girls who wander too far away.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - A Different Sort of Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arewebrutalhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arewebrutalhearts/gifts).



> If the style of narration bothers you, it will change as of the next chapter. This is a lead in.
> 
> Also, gigantic thanks to Hearts, Val, and Ivy for making sure this story didn't blow up in my face. And again to Ivy for not abusing her screen-sharing powers.

 

             
            Oh, stay still now. You said you wanted to hear a story, didn’t you? Well, I’m trying to tell you one, if you’ll just sit...there. That’s better. Now, what sort of story did you want to hear?

            Perhaps _Rapunzel?_ No? You’ve heard it too many times, have you? Ah, no princesses either? Well, that’s a dilemma, isn’t it? But you know, there is _one_ story I thought I might save for a rainy day. It’s the best sort, I think.

            A true one.

            All right, all right, I’ll tell it now. But you’ll have to be patient. It takes a while, you see, to explain the circumstances, and the players take a bit of getting used to. They’re stubborn folk, all of them. Especially our little prince.

            Oh, not a _real_ one, dear, don’t you worry about that.

            Years ago, in the woods, there stood a village--not a particularly _large_ village, but big enough for a number of families, a huntsman, a woodsman, a baker, a carver, and a village council not _entirely_ populated by men of the same family. Large enough to be open to newcomers, but still produce an impressive amount of gossip.

            Still large enough to spread panic.

            Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

            Once, in this village--let’s call it Beacon, for that’s what it was--there often came a lovely young woman by the name of Claudia. She was a unique woman, and a bold one, at the time. She traveled wherever she pleased, and brought back all sorts of splendid trinkets and furs, dried herbs and spices. Though many whispered about her, none were ever disappointed at her coming, for she had a wide smile, a bright laugh, and a limitless retinue of stories just waiting to be told.

            Ah, such stories! The like of which you’ve never heard--of women draped in vines and flowers as one might don the most delicate finery, and of men who walked on two legs by day, and four by the light of the moon.

            In her travels, she claimed, she saw all of these wondrous things, but nothing in all the world could persuade her from her eventual return to the little village of Beacon. It was said among the housewives and laundering women that Claudia, daring Claudia, had her eye on John, the Sheriff’s man, and he certainly returned the favor.

            Likewise, though the villagers, the children, her very own Sheriff’s man did beg her to stay when the cold season drew to a close and the flowers sprang up, she insisted that her travels continue. _Always the trade_ , she would say, _nothing without an exchange._

            And then, one season, she returned to the village with something new and intriguing among her baubles and bolts--a baby boy, with the sweetest little upturned nose, just like yours, and speckles on his skin.

            She called him Kazimierz, and laughed when the villagers tried, and failed, to pronounce it _. It’s all right_ , she said, _it is only a wish for his future_. We will call him Stiles for _short_. And when she looked to her John, her eyes warmed in the chill air.

            And so he was born, our stubborn little prince.

            He was long-limbed from the start, expressive in his every mood and gesture, and eager to learn. It seemed, at any given moment, that he might find himself in a great number of places a young boy should not be, most often with the healer’s boy stumbling after him, ever concerned and apologetic.

            They were a good match, a strong pair, and Scott would always be sad and confused at the start of Spring when Claudia and Stiles would say their goodbyes and give their promises to return in a few months to weather the cold again.

            With a last brush of the hand and a child’s gap-toothed smile, they would be off again.

            So time came and went, and Claudia and Stiles returned season after season, bearing small gifts and telling fantastic tales, scraping knees and holding tight to their roots, their tentative family. Each year, they disappeared down the forest path, and each year they returned.

  
            Until one year, Stiles returned alone.

            His shoulders were heavy in the cold wind, and his smile, a frail and wavering one. _He is only a boy_ , the villagers whispered, _he has no business traveling this way. Not alone._

            But John, now Sheriff, knew that this wandering would not be denied.

  
           He knelt down on the path, stretched his arms out so that Claudia’s boy might wander into them. And he did, for every season afterward. The whispers continued, but made no difference. Each season Stiles came, and each season Stiles went. Over time, his smile brightened. He began to take after his mother.

            His wide gestures told stories with movement, with implication, and with an enormity found only in one with such boundless energy. He became just as beloved as his mother had been and, with her loss, a valuable and irreplaceable thing.

            And so they gave him stories in return.

            One night, gathered around a roaring fire and bundled well together, Stiles heard a troubling tale--the story of the Fox. A young huntsman named Jackson spoke up, voice booming and suited for stories of conquest and braggery, not the nuances of magic and wonder he had grown with.

            It unnerved him.

 

x

 

            _There’s a legend ‘round here,_ Jackson said, _Cautionary, really--about a Red Fox.  
There are plenty of things out there in the forest with teeth and claws and barbs, sharp catching things like you wouldn’t believe. Next to them, you see, the Fox seems small. But there’s the danger of it._

_They say he’s a handsome devil, sleek and soft of fur. Only thing quicker than his feet is his tongue, and that’s a barb all its own. See, he plays at being weak, clumsy, hell, even stupid, so the others overlook him._

_He’s always overlooked._

_But the fox always eats well._

_Over the years, our red gent’s gone and refined his palate. Those animals out there, the sharp ones, the strong ones, they’re no challenge to him. And that makes him angry. There’s no_ ** _reward_** _out there but the contentment of a full belly._

_And that’s just not enough._

_See, he’s **clever** , and he’s fostered a taste for **clever** girls who wander too far in the forest._

Jackson turned, casting his eyes at wide-eyed Shanti, surrounded by friends, yet terrified, as children so often are.

             _If you are lucky, he might be kind enough to eat you whole._

 

x

 

            There was a moment of silence, interspersed with soft, shivering whispers before Stiles began to laugh, bright and ringing. All eyes turned to him, that strange and sylvan boy, and a smile broke on his face. _A murderous fox?_ He said, _It’s not the wolves you’re worried about?_

            _No,_ Jackson answered, eyes narrowed and tone sharp. _It’s the Fox you ought to watch out for in your travels. A pack of dogs is nothing._

 _Dogs,_ Stiles chuckled, _Yes, dogs._

He shook his head.

            _I think maybe you’ve misjudged him, your--what did you call him? Your red gentleman? I can’t blame you for that. They **are** beautiful._

_...You’ve seen him?_

_I’ve seen **one.** A vixen. A mother. _

Despite Jackson’s displeasure, the listeners were eager to hear another of the traveler’s stories. They clambered eagerly for another tale, a happier tale, for that is the way with people.

 

x

 

            _I found her looming over three small children. About your size, I think, and just as excited and careless. You see, they’d kicked in the protections she laid by her den, and to a mother, these things are very important._

_So she was very angry, this red vixen._

_And, if you’ll believe it, I heard her **speak**. _

            Children, _she said,_ Do you see where you are?

            _They did, they claimed, and they were awfully sorry, because this vixen, in her anger, was terrible. Her teeth were sharp, and her eyes were hard, and her fur bristled with the energy of it._

            Just there _, she growled,_ you stand at the edge of a faerie circle. One step more, and your parents would never hear where you had been taken off to. But you were fortunate to miss it, and in your fortune, you have taken something from me, instead.

            _The children begged and pleaded, but the beast was not to be swayed._

             Look, there. _She snapped, and the children looked, their cheeks wet, their noses red, and they saw her kit, awake and shivering at the mouth of her den. Just as frightened, and just as small._

_And the children understood._

_Still, the fox bared her teeth in anger._ You have taken something from me, and so I shall take something from each of you.

            _The children remained still, shivering in the cold, holding their breath. Waiting._

            _And with three sharp tugs, she took her prize from each, as she promised. The children stared as she trotted back to the den, bowed her head, and tucked their scarves around her frightened kit._

_For a moment, she stood there, over her child, looking back at these small humans, and they in turn looked upon her._

           You are, each of you, to tell your mothers what you have done. You are not to come so close to the circle again. You are to be careful and considerate.

           _She came near to them again,_ You are to keep these safe.

           _To each child, she presented a small, glass bead, glowing as if lit from inside._

           _Just like that, the human children loped away, and the vixen curled around her kit and went to sleep._

 

x

 

          Stiles looked up from his tale, eyes bright and wet in the light of the fire as he smiled at Jackson. _Foxes have a fondness for rabbits and blackberries. Not human flesh. A fox will trick you, a fox will lead you in circles, a fox will scare you senseless, but she will not **eat** you._ 

           His smile disappeared, _But you **are** the huntsman, after all. _

 

x

 

         The stories told that night were the popular topic that entire season. On the street, Stiles ducked his head when questioned, and Jackson’s cheeks burned a bright and angry red.

         When he left at the end of the season, Stiles was sent off, as usual, with many warm wishes and firm embraces. He walked down the forest path and disappeared from sight.

         The tale echoed in the village for a long while afterward, especially between the ears of the lovely young Shanti, the girl Jackson both adored and terrified with such pleasure.

         As the seasons passed, the girl became more and more passionate to have an adventure of her own, a tale to tell. She did not fear the howling in the night, nor the strange, barren sway of the branches in the evening cold.

         She would have a story of her own to trade, by the time Stiles returned.

          Her endeavors, unfortunately, were not so well-rewarded.

         And that, my dear, is where our story begins.


	2. Shanti Tells a Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”
> 
>  
> 
> ― G.K. Chesterton

 

 

            The Fall months in Beacon were always a glorious time. There was the promise of warm bonfires and a lingering scent of sweet pies in the air as the winds plucked glittering golds, oranges, and yellows from outstretched branches.

            Even as the colors retreated from their village and the cold swept in, preparations for winter were as joyous a time as any. The square bustled with boisterous calls and the laughter of children as Shanti picked her way about the market, basket on her hip.

            “Shanti! Slow down!” She turned her head, searching the crowd, before glancing down at a tugging on her skirt. Her younger brother’s gap-toothed smile awaited her.

            “Yulie, you were supposed to help Mama this afternoon.”

            “She told me to come help you! Isn’t your basket heavy?”

            Shanti laughed, “Are you going to carry it for me?”

            “I could.”

            “I believe you.”

            “But you still won’t _let_ me.”

            “Mmmmmm...no.”

            “It’s because I’m so small! No one will let me do anything because I’m small!”

            “Well you won’t be small forever, Yulie. You’d grow an awful lot faster if you’d just eat your greens like Mama told you.”

            “You don’t eat them, either!”

            “It’s a good thing I’m not short, then, isn’t it?”

            “They taste like shoe.”

            “You say _everything_ tastes like shoe.”

            “Not cake.”

            “Of course not cake. Little pig.” She stuck her tongue out at him, but grinned widely when he laughed and wrapped himself about her legs, face pressed into her skirt. A moment later, she made out the quiet ‘oink oink’, and couldn’t help but laugh.

            Once Yulie came up for air, she ruffled his wild hair, “You know, Stiles says that pixies are no bigger than your palm, but they can work _magic_. They help the flowers grow.”

            “I help flowers grow!”

            “Huh, maybe _you’re_ a pixie.”

            “Maybe you’re delusional.”

            Shanti watched her brother’s happy expression fizzle as Jackson announced his presence, loud and intrusive. Young children in the village of Beacon tended to fall into two camps--those who adored Jackson, and those who understood just how soul-crushingly obnoxious he could be.

            Shanti understood the sentiment.

            Jackson made a show of standing in her path, leaning into her space and smiling, “Come on, aren’t you a _little_ happy to see me?”

            “I’d be happier, perhaps, if you were walking the other way.”

          “You can’t feed the kid _dreams,_ Shanti. Just look at your basket. Is a pixie going to provide for your family?”

            “No, Jackson. _I_ am. My mother is. _We_ are going to look after one another, because that is what family _does_. But there’s nothing wrong,” She drew her shoulders up, squaring herself as if for a fight, “There’s nothing wrong with believing.”

            Jackson’s expression soured, “You can’t believe all of those stories he tells, Shanti. He’s a _wanderer_ , he peddles pretty trinkets. It’s his _job_ to delude people. Why do you think he never stays--why do you think he’ll _never stay_?”

            “Yulie? You can hold the basket.”

            Her brother shuffles forward, arms outstretched to take her burden, and she turns to the huntsman, hands on her hips and chest puffed up. “It doesn’t matter where the stories come from, or who tells them. It doesn’t matter who stays and who goes, as long as you have the imagination--the _heart_ \--to keep that _belief_ going. That’s not _delusion._ That’s hope. That’s wonder. And if that ever runs out, Jackson? I hope that’s the moment I _die_!”

            Jackson stood for a moment, dumbstruck at her outburst, glancing around at the villagers who had stopped to eavesdrop. “I don’t have a _heart_? Fine, maybe I don’t. But I do have a steady hand, and enough sense to know that _whatever is out there_ doesn’t need _imagination_ to rip your pretty, dreaming heart right out of your chest. The things out there are _real_ , and they’re not in it to teach you a life lesson, Shanti. They’re just fucking **_hungry._** ”

            And like that, he was gone.

 

x

 

            A heavy murmuring followed in the huntsman’s wake, opinions mixed, as they always were. Some believed Shanti, and the other children, foolish for holding so tightly to the storyteller’s fables. Others were sorry for Jackson’s brash outcry--the boy had too much pride and too little comfort in him. He couldn’t be blamed, after all, for his own lack of family.

            Shanti shook off their glances like water, turning once again to take the basket from her brother and gently tidying his hair, “Don’t mind him, Yulie. He’s a good person, really. Just stubborn.”

            Yulie gave her the same look he’d given their mother over ladlefuls of brussel sprouts, insistent that they really were delicious. It meant, simply put, that he was not buying what she was selling, and that she ought to quit before he went in search of better, muddier company.

            Or perhaps a very tall tree to climb.

            “Oh, don’t look at me that way.”

            They walked in silence for a few moments before Yulie seemed to gather his thoughts, “Shanti, is Stiles a liar?”

            His sister stopped short. “No, Yulie. Stiles is a traveler, and a storyteller. He’s...he’s special, and some of the things he says--they might not be as solid as we are, but they’re _real_. All right? And I’ll show you someday.”

            “You promise?”

            “No, I’m making this up for my health. Now go on!”

            She nudged him with her foot to set him walking, and together they headed home.

 

x

 

            The night’s meal was a pleasant one, devoid of any mentions of Jackson. Under the watchful eye of Shanti and her mother, Yulie made sure to clean his plate. He only made three unpleasant faces, which was, under the circumstances, progress.

            Both children helped their mother clean the dishes, and then spent the evening hours by the fireside, basking in the scents of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Shanti curled up at her mother’s feet, her head resting against the softness of a long-worn shawl as her mother’s long fingers carded through her hair.

            “Mama,” She said, “I told Yulie that we will go adventuring someday. Just like in the stories.”

            Her mother hummed. “Maybe.”

            “ _Will_ be, Mama.”

            “Hmmm hmmm.”

            “It will be.”

x

 

            The village was quiet as Shanti slipped through the narrow opening of her bedroom window, feet meeting the earth with a soft _thud_ , and thankfully just missing her mother’s flower beds. She gathered her bag and lantern from the sill before picking her way behind the neighboring homes.

            It was too great a risk to take the path. She would be scolded harshly for sneaking away, especially at this hour. A young girl had no business skulking about at all hours of the night, and Shanti was still growing, still so very vulnerable.

            As if she might be plucked like one of her mother’s precious blooms.

            _Victimized_.

            Shanti scoffed. The most danger she faced in life was falling to the ‘charms’ aggressively touted by Jackson and his ilk. The idea of foregoing any possibility of adventure to bat her lashes at one of the village boys was laughable at best.

            Ah, but a boy from elsewhere…

            The air was growing colder, and the branches rapidly losing their brilliant fiery coats. She shivered in the wind, looking back at the village as it grew smaller in her wake.

            It hadn’t been hard, not at all.

            Not a single dog had howled. Not a single curtain drawn back.

            No one had noticed her passing.

            It would be best this way.

 

x

 

            Though they had once been beautiful, the leaves scattered along the forest path were petty likenesses now. They were streaked with mud, flattened and wet underfoot. Shanti felt an inexplicable sorrow--as if something beautiful had died.

_It’s silly_ , she thought. There would always be another Fall, another brilliant display of color and light in the trees, another gateway to a chill winter spent with friends and family, remaining close for warmth and basking in their traveler’s tales.

            She wondered what he would bring back this time--wondered if there would be silks and baubles as wondrous as the leaves had been. Something brilliant. Something bright.

            Something _red_.

            Something like the flash of color just there, by the line of trees beyond the path, where her lantern’s glow could not seem to penetrate. She lifted the lamp higher, squinting as if she might uncover some clue.

            Another scarlet flare in the dank undergrowth, and her mind was made up.

            She had come in search of adventure, and she would _not_ be swayed by a bit of shadow and damp. Miss Claudia never had been--always rolling up her sleeves and skirts, the occasional pant leg to turn over bits of brush or stone and show them something new and fascinating.

            She always found the very best things.

 

x

  


            The fox lifted its head when she finally caught sight of it, standing at attention at the edge of a copse of trees. Its fur was clean and a smooth, eye-catching orange-red, even in the darkness. The moon tripping from the higher branches skipped and dappled at the animal’s coat.

            Like a speckled egg.

            Like the gaps in Yulie’s smile.

            “Hello,” She called, “Are you the Red Fox?”

            A bright, intelligent pair of eyes seemed to study her closely, each muscle taut and ready. All was tension, all was uncertainty. Shanti wondered if, perhaps, both stories had been false.

            If she had merely caught sight of some pretty and fleeting thing, and if she should do her best to collect some small trinket and tuck it by her brother’s pillow. He would be surprised, come morning.

            She looked away, glancing toward the flowing river bed some few yards back, where she might find a few smooth stones. When she looked back, the fox had disappeared, and the crackling, shushing sounds occurred to her as uncommon. _Strange_.

            With a wet, tearing sound, a thump, a rattle, there was nothing to mark her presence.

            And so the wonder died,   
                        as did she.  
  


x  
  


            An acrid scent mixed with the earth and bloom of the forest, something that burned at his nose  and set his hackles rising. A burnt, lingering sweetness like cooking flesh, perverted by the scent of salt and iron: Fear.

            Come morning, they would find her.

            The poor thing.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of thanks to Hearts, Val, and Ivy for staying up with me and keeping me on task, especially with our most murderous purpose.
> 
> Expect a lot more familiar faces as of the next chapter, and, most likely, much more content.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE IVY
> 
> Never mind.


End file.
